


Welcome to Purgatory

by eternaleponine



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archie's arrival on the Justinian, and what comes after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Purgatory

"Well, well. What is this, then?" Simpson asked, looking up from the bit of wood he was whittling when he heard someone come in to the midshipmen's berth and set down a sea chest. "Who are you, snotty?" he demanded.

Archie blinked, taken aback by the surliness in the man's tone. He had been under the impression that commissioned officers, even midshipmen, at least had some semblance of manners and breeding. This man's behavior quickly had him doubting the notion. Perhaps it was only a bad day. Everyone had those from time to time. "Midshipman Archibald Kennedy," he said, offering a hand and a smile. "Archie."

The smile was not returned, and his hand was not shaken but used to yank him closer. He tripped over his own feet and knocked against one of the chairs, biting his cheek to keep from muttering an oat at the sharp pain that radiated from the point of impact. "Kennedy, is it?" Well, Mister Midshipman Kennedy, I'm Mister Midshipman Simpson, and I'm in charge here. Do you understand?" He squeezed Archie's hand so tightly the bones grated.

"I thought that—" Archie began, but Simpson's nose practically touching his own as he got in his face brought him up short.

"Never mind what you thought, snotty. I'm telling you what is. Up there, they might think we're all of the same rank, but down here, I'm in charge. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes," Archie breathed, choking on the stench of Simpson's breath, a mixture of alcohol and food gone rancid, it seemed like. "Sir," he added belatedly.

The hesitation got him pushed up against the bulkhead, Simpson's arm across his chest, edging on his throat. "I said, do you _understand_ , snotty?"

Archie wanted to tell him to stop calling him 'snotty' but he knew it would only make things worse. "Yes sir," Archie said more firmly, even though Simpson's arm was cutting short his breath.

"Don't forget it," Simpson said, and let him loose.

Archie waited until Simpson's back was turned before he rubbed his throat to try and ease the ache. He was glad when the bell rang for watch, and Simpson had to leave to go on deck. He'd been told he wasn't required to report for duty until the first dog watch, and that in the meantime he should acquaint himself with the ship, but don't get in anyone's way.

He wasn't sure how he was going to get in anyone's way when it didn't seem that anyone was doing much of anything. Still, he tried not to bother anyone as he wandered around. Despite hours of poring over ships' diagrams, he still managed to get himself hopelessly turned around belowdecks. When he made it back to the main deck, and open air, he decided he'd best stay there 'til his watch. It was the safest course if he wanted to avoid being late. The last thing he wanted was a flogging on his first shift.

Simpson made sure to knock into him as he passed by, but Archie said nothing. Certainly the man had just stumbled, or only wanted to remind him of what he'd said before. Archie thought that if he just stayed out of the man's way, Simpson's sour mood would resolve itself and all would be well. He was a naturally optimistic young man, good-natured and nearly always smiling. He liked to believe that overall, people were good and meant each other well.

He had never met anyone like Simpson before, someone who was so obviously miserable, and determined to make everyone around him more so. The fact that Archie tried so hard to keep his spirits up only angered him and made him more determined to break the young midshipman's sunny disposition.

Slowly, by inches and degrees, he found the chinks in Archie's good cheer, the places he could poke and prod, mock and mimic until Kennedy's smile faltered, then slipped away entirely.

A few weeks in, when Simpson managed to pry out of him that he loved the theater, things really came undone. After that, all of the pointed comments, the questions and verbal jabs, kept coming back to that, and the sort of men and boys that spent their time at the theater.

"So tell me, Mister Kennedy," Simpson said one evening. "How was it that you watched those beloved plays of yours when you spent the entire time on your knees? Or did you bend right over for them? Pretty boy like you must have been very popular."

Archie blushed at the implication, which was as good as an admission of guilt in Simpson's mind. He advanced on the young man, and Archie stepped back until he hit the wall and could move no farther. Trapped, his eyes darted left and right, searching for a way to escape, but the space was small.

"Nowhere to run, snotty," Simpson sneered. "No one here but us, either, so don't think anyone's going to save you. Not that they could, could they? They'd hold you down if I told 'em. Maybe I ought to. Could let 'em have a turn, even, if I'd a mind to. Couldn't I?"

Archie gulped. He wasn't even entirely sure what Simpson was talking about, except in the general sense that was whispered about behind one's hand, but there was a part of him that could imagine it, imagine the things that Simpson might do, that he apparently thought Archie had already done.

"B-But that's..." he stammered. Unlawful. A sin. He couldn't. He wouldn't dare. But the look in Simpson's eye turned his stomach, and a part of him desperately wished he would be sick, then and there. If he was, Simpson wouldn't touch him, would he? Or maybe he would just beat him, and certainly that would be better.

Hadn't his uncle told him he was making a mistake going to sea? But he hadn't listened, had he? As he saw it, he didn't have many other prospects, and one grew tired of being the poor relation. Perhaps he could distinguish himself and earn his family's approval after all. There wasn't much glory in being a midshipman but it was only the first step.

Trouble was, he wasn't sure he would make it. Not like this, where after only a few weeks he was hoping for a beating because the alternative was much worse.

But he didn't get sick, and no amount of struggling could free him, or even provoke Simpson into leaving off on whatever twisted notion he'd gotten into his head and simply laying into him with his fists instead. The more Archie tried to get away, the more it seemed to spur the man on, and eventually Archie just gave up and let it happen. What use was fighting when he couldn't win, and it only made Simpson more inclined to make it as painful as possible.

When it was over, Simpson simply walked away, leaving Archie sprawled face down on the table, the edge digging into his stomach. He pulled up his breeches and slumped to the floor, then forced himself up, moving as quickly as he could to be sick over the rail instead of on the deck, where he would only have to scrub it.

"All right, Mister Kennedy?"

Archie looked up and saw Clayton, a fellow midshipman who was far too old for the job. (As were all of those on _Justinian_ , in truth, save Archie, and even he had come to it late.) "Fine," he said, blinking hard to try to keep the tears that rose up from falling.

"Everyone gets a bit sick occasionally," Clayton said, obviously trying to comfort the young man.

"I'm sure I shall feel better presently," Archie said. He looked down at the water, and the thought that he could simply throw himself over the rail and truly be done with it passed through his mind, the imagining of it so vivid he had to take a step away from the rail for fear he might succumb to it.

"I'm sure you will," Clayton agreed, although he was sure of no such thing. There was something in the boy's expression, a brittleness in his gaze, that alarmed the older man. He opened his mouth to ask if Simpson had done something to him, but closed it because it would only be an added cruelty to force the boy to answer. Better to let him forget it if he could.

That night it became obvious that Archie couldn't forget it. Even if he could manage not to think about it while awake (and that was hard enough – almost impossible, really), his subconscious would not let it go. He woke up gasping for air, soaked in sweat from a nightmare. Luckily, no one woke but Clayton, whose hammock was slung next to his.

"Steady on, Mister Kennedy," he said softly. "It was only a bad dream."

Archie couldn't look at him. He wanted to tell Clayton that it wasn't just a bad dream, that it was a very real reality that he was being forced to relive, but he could not find the words, and would the man believe him? He might, but it would do no good. Clayton was known to be a drunk, and no one took him very seriously. Archie simply tugged his blankets around him and buried his face in the material so that no one could hear him cry.

Clayton watched him, his heart sinking. It pained him to see the young man broken down like this, when he would likely thrive on any other ship. He was too bright, too spirited, for a ship so downtrodden. It wasn't fair that he'd ended up here, of all places.

Archie hoped that once Simpson had had his way, it would end there. He did nothing to cross the man, minding his words and actions carefully to avoid attention. But Simpson was capricious in his cruelty, and it didn't matter what Archie did or didn't do. If Simpson wanted to torture him, he would. He didn't need a reason. Some days he left Archie alone, targeting one of the other men instead, but the youngest of them was his favorite target.

One day they were both on shift together, and Archie managed to complete a particular task more quickly and neatly than Simpson, drawing the lieutenant of the watch's praise and Simpson's ire. That evening, when they'd all had their supper, he bent Archie over the table again, there in front of the other mids, leaving him trembling in pain and humiliation afterwards.

"That ought to teach you not to show up your betters," Simpson snarled.

Clayton moved toward Archie, but a look from Simpson warned him off. He turned away as Archie composed himself, walking stiffly away, his expression blank but his eyes gutted.

That night, Clayton dozed, expecting nightmares. It had taken all of his willpower and not a little subterfuge to save his grog ration, thinking it might help ease Archie back to sleep when he inevitably woke. In the aftermath of what happened after they'd taken to their hammocks, he was glad that he had, though it was he himself who drank it, not Archie.

They had all drifted off when Archie began to moan, the sound getting louder as the moments ticked by.

"Shut him up, will you?" Simpson demanded.

Clayton reached over to shake Archie awake, only to have the young man jerk away, and then jerk again, toppling himself out of his hammock and onto the deck. He continued to moan, convulsing in a fit that seemed to last forever, but likely lasted no more than a minute at the outside, and quite possibly significantly less.

When he finally stopped twitching, Clayton dropped down from his hammock and knelt over the boy, touching him gently on the shoulder, not wanting to spook him. He needn't have worried, though, because Archie was insensible. He didn't come to until the older midshipman had picked him up and gotten him settled back in his blankets.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice soft and a bit hoarse.

"A nightmare," Clayton told him. "Just a very bad nightmare." He wasn't sure why he kept the truth from the young man, except that he didn't think he needed anything else to trouble himself over.

"Oh." Archie looked away. "Right. Thank you for your kindness, Mister Clayton," he murmured.

"Of course." He watched Archie for a moment more, then slugged back the grog he had saved and tried to sleep.

They both hoped in vain that the incident would be isolated. At first, the fits seemed to correspond with particularly bad incidents with Simpson, but as time passed there didn't seem to need to be any sort of precipitating incident to bring one on. They came at random, and sporadically enough that they would start to believe the worst was over, and then another would strike. It got to the point where the men began to discuss (out of Simpson's earshot) whether it might be best to tell the doctor. In the end, though, nothing was done, because the doctor was mostly a useless drunk, and if they did report it, it was likely Mister Kennedy would be declared unfit for service and sent away. After everything that had been done to the young man, they didn't need to cost him his job as well. As long as the nightmares and fits didn't interfere with his doing his duty, they would keep mum.

A few months in, Archie caught a stroke of luck. Simpson was promoted from midshipman to Acting Lieutenant, and moved to the lieutenants' berth. While he couldn't avoid the man entirely, he mostly saw him on deck, where there were witnesses to any persecution Simpson might decide to subject him to. There were still times when the man found a way to corner Archie off-duty, but for the most part he was left alone, and the fits subsided.

Six months on, Archie was greeted with a most welcome sight – a new midshipman, and this one seeming to be around his own age. "Welcome to Purgatory," he greeted him cheerfully at the rail. The young man looked vaguely green, and soaked through from his journey from shore to ship in the driving rain.

Archie took him below, telling him about the _Justinian_. They made their way to the midshipman's berth and Archie helped the new man – Horatio, he learned – settle in. Everything was looking brighter... and then Simpson came back. He'd been demoted again, after failing to pass his exam for lieutenant.

The light in Archie's eyes dimmed, and he seemed to withdraw into himself. When Horatio began to challenge Simpson, he wanted to warn him off, but it would only draw Simpson's attention. He kept his head down and his mouth shut, and tried his best to be cheerful when Simpson wasn't about.

That night he had the first fit he'd had in a long time, and came to with Horatio hovering over him. He turned away, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Not even a day and he'd already lost the only possibility of a friend he'd had. Certainly Horatio wouldn't want anything to do with someone who had nightmares and fits. He would think he was touched in the head, and no one needed that sort of stigma. Particularly not someone who was already carrying his own for being sick while more or less docked.

He was surprised when Horatio still spoke to him the next day, as friendly as he had ever been. Archie tried to stay cheerful, not wanting to give his new friend cause to ask what troubled him. In truth, there was no need to ask, because Horatio was taking the brunt of it now, although it seemed that Simpson had no designs on doing anything beyond inflicting his fists on the new mid.

Horatio, braver than Archie, ended up challenging Simpson to a duel, but Clayton died in his place after knocking him out so he wouldn't make it to shore. Simpson was injured, and before he could be returned to duty, they received some very welcome news – they were to be transferred.

"The _Indefatigable_ ," Archie said. "A frigate. Prize money!" he told Horatio excitedly. But more than that, better, was the fact that Simpson was not coming with them. Finally, they would be free of his tyranny.

"Yes, Archie," Horatio said with a smile, his friend's enthusiasm contagious.

"I won't miss this place a bit," Archie said.

"Nor I," Horatio admitted quietly.

"I'm glad we're going together," Archie added. "I shouldn't like to leave you behind." Not on this ship especially.

Horatio just smiled and began to ready his things for the transfer.


End file.
